23 posts tagged “quotes”

(Yes, I watched the debate.  Yawn.  I'm waiting for "the moment."  It's not coming, is it?)

My mom, "Grammy," formerly known as Meemaw, is in town visiting.  Grammy has no bigger fan than Dash, who knows that his likelihood of scoring a new matchbox car each day skyrockets with Grammy around.  He knows who butters his bread!  (Of course, he doesn't eat that bread, because it has butter on it... a post on his eating disorder is forthcoming...)

Meanwhile, with Grammy around interacting with the kids, I can't help to think back to my own childhood and how we're continuing some wonderful traditions, like pepperoni rolls.  I fondly remember taking pepperoni rolls in my lunch, and now Petunia loves them more than anything; they're #1 on her favorite foods list, followed closely by broccoli.  (There will be no post on her eating, as it's perfect, like pretty much anything Petunia does.)  Grammy baked four dozen pepperoni rolls for Petunia's lunchbox today; they should last until her return visit in December, unless the Guv starts getting into them, in which case they'll last until Sunday.  (I wish I had the nerve to post on HIS eating disorders, but they are too numerous and give me indigestion just at the thought.)  I'm also hearing a lot of the rhymes of my childhood, like the "you must pay the rent" routine.  It's nice, her passing things along to my kids that I enjoyed.

But there's continuity, and then there's change.  In my childhood, we couldn't really say words like "suck" or "crap."  It's not like we got our mouths washed out with soap or anything; we just knew not to say those words.  Well, Dash and Petunia are the children of the Guv and Rox, and let's just say that we have a "you can only swear inside our house and sometimes the car" rule.  (I'm not the only mommy blogger with this rule.)  The rule doesn't exactly work when people come to visit, but, well, teaching a kid how to swear appropriately is important!  So we're working on it.  Part of the problem with our teaching, though, is that we are funny, funny people.  Meaning that if our kid starts dropping f-bombs, we should probably scold them, but we can't; we're hiding our laughing faces, especially if they've used it in either a very appropriate or a very inappropriate way.  It's our fatal parental flaw: we laugh when we probably shouldn't.  The shame of it...

Case in point, this afternoon, I had to tell Dash that a playdate was cancelled because he had a fever.  Dash took all of two seconds to start repeatedly screaming "YOU SUCK!" in my face.  I cried for my own mommy, through my tears of laughter, asking "What do I do in this situation?  What do I do?"  And her response was basically, "It's too late to do anything because you're already laughing" -- which made me laugh harder.  Eventually, he stopped (appropriately, and for the first time ever -- well done!) yelling that I suck, and we moved on to other things, like tracking snails. 

Thinking off and on that I really have to start cracking down on my kids regarding proper speech, lest they morph from saying "you suck" into saying horrible things like "Joe Sixpack" and "drill, baby, drill" (that was NOT appropriate for PG television!), I resolved to talk it over with the Guv tonight. 

And then Dash went to tell his Grammy goodnight.  He yelled down the stairs, "Goodnight, buttcrack!"  (his favorite word that he's only allowed to use in the house).

And Grammy promptly responded: "Goodnight, buttcrack!"

At that moment, I had an urge to e-mail my siblings, because I'm confident that neither of them has ever heard our mother say "buttcrack."  Realizing it's bigger than them, than us, here it is in a blog post for posterity.  My kids swear, and now my mother's saying "buttcrack."  The battle's lost, and so's the war, and hell's frozen over, and we're all going there... laughing all the way, ha ha ha...

"I love you monster truck," Dash gushes to his monster truck.  And to his mail truck, Dash professes "I love you too, mail truck."  He pauses to play a little, then yells to me, "Hey Mama!  I love my trucks!"

"That's nice, Dash.  Do you love Mama, too?" asks Mama, who rarely seeks validation, especially since Dash isn't one to be all lovey-dovey, unlike Petunia, who always was.

"I said I love my trucks," replies Dash.

"I know you love your trucks.  And I love you!  Sometimes it would be nice if you said you loved Mama, too," I added with a forlorn sigh. 

"Mama!"  Dash exclaims.  "I love you up to the ceiling lights!" 

My jaw dropped.  He understood!  And he might not love me to the moon, but I'll take to the lights.  That's progress!

"I love you too, Dash," I said, so happy, hugging him.

"That's right, Mama," Dash continued, "I love you, Coffee Crotch."

"What?!"  I exclaimed.

"I said I LOVE YOU COFFEE CROTCH!" Dash proudly repeated.

You see, a couple of weekends ago, the Guv drove over a bump while I was drinking coffee, and it spilled in my, ummm, lap.  I vaguely remember exclaiming something like "Jesus, Guv, now there's coffee all over my crotch!"  Whoopsie.  At least I didn't say va-jay-jay, I guess!

Petunia: Mama, why did Hillary get kicked out again?

Mama: You mean, why did Hillary lose the primary election?

Petunia: Yeah... wait, she lost because Obama won, right?

Mama: More or less.

Dash: Boo for Hillary!  Boo for Obama!  Yeah for Buttcrack!

(Obviously, the kid's been talking politics with the Guv again.  Or else he's a Republican already... wait, that's against the law in Texas...)

Cruise ship

A cruise ship does not have sails.
It has smokestacks.
It is a big, huge limousine boat.
People can ride on it
Unless it is a police boat.
People do not ride on a police boat.
The end.

The Guv: Dash, what do you want to eat at McDonald's?

Dash: I want to wait until its closed and then I want to break in and cook all of us some good dinner.

Uh-oh....

To her father this morning: "I like it when I can buy lunch at camp, because Mama's not there, and it's private."

Mama's response: Yeah, that and you think you can get away with buying total crap to eat... But I'm onto you, sister, because I got a printout of your meal purchases.  Cakesters?  Let's see if you're allowed to buy lunch next year.

*****

To her father this evening: "We play this game for twenty points, you versus me.  Whoever wins gets to be the boss of the day tomorrow, and that's going to turn out very well for me."

Mama's response: Of course, because if you win, you'll think you're the boss, and if daddy wins, you'll still end up being the boss because he's a SUCKER.  Since you two have such a swell boss-day planned, can I have tomorrow off?

*****

Of course, not to be outdone, Dash had some last words for me before bed: "Mama, tomorrow I'm going to find some big, huge men, and do you know what I'm going to say to them?  PREPARE TO GET BEANED."

This morning, we all had a hard wake-up.  I spent last night in a tent in the backyard with Petunia, and my air mattress deflated halfway through the night.  Since I also kayaked yesterday, I already had a sore tail end, made no better by half a night on the hard ground.  But since I really enjoyed listening to the wind rustling our forest of tall trees as I watched the sun rise, I'm not complaining -- I'm just sore.

That left the Guv to wrangle Dash in bed all night since Dash wanted no part of sleeping in the tent.  The Guv claims that Dash slept from 9:30 - 4:30 uninterrupted -- but the Guv lay awake for a long time listening to Dash snore and fighting Dash's sideways turns and kicks to his ribs.  When Dash finally woke up around 8, I dragged walked him to the potty straight away.  He wanted me to lift him onto the big potty, so I did.

And I lowered his foot into the toilet. 

Splash!

When something happens that Dash doesn't like, he acts as though you ripped the head off of his favorite teddy bear in front of him just to be mean.  "All hell breaks loose" doesn't describe it.  He has a way of imposing guilt that would make my sixth grade teacher, Sister Mary Rose Anne, beam with pride. 

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," I said, washing his feet in my tub.

He got over it and asked to play Wii with his sister.  After a few games of slot cars, he turned to me and said, "Mama, you're scary."

"Why am I scary, Dash?" I asked.

"Because you're the only one to put me IN the toilet, Mama." 

Fair enough, Dash, fair enough.

I have held my breath for a long time today, for day two of potty training Dash The Impossible has been as seamless as day one.  He's gone #1 and #2 multiple times today.  There was one #2 accident in his pull-up -- while he was running to the potty, though.  I hit the local Dollar General to stock up on some rewards, but I'm not sure I'll need them -- he seems to feel that the act of going, getting praise and flushing it away is reward enough.  I did pick up this Little Critters book as today's reward, and we've read it twenty times already.  So... my prediction is that, by the end of the week, we'll be trying underpants (in the smallest size made, might I add).

Here are some of Dash's recent quotes about this experience:

Last night, we called Grammy to offer a Potty Progress Report.

Dash: "Hi Grammy.  I pooped on the potty.  And now I'm playing with Toxic Play-Doh!"

Mama: "NON-toxic, Dash, NON-toxic..."

Grammy: "Did you really poop on the potty?!  You're such a big boy!  Can I bring you a present when I see you in California?  I'll have a present in my suitcase."

Dash: "Can it be a big one?"

Grammy: "I'm not sure that I can fit a big one in my suitcase, but I can take you shopping and let you pick a toy.  Would you like that?"

Dash: "Or there's UPS."

*****

Dash ruminated after reading his new potty book before bed: "Diapers and pull-ups are for babies.  And I'm a Big Man.  Soon I will drive a motorcycle and be a garbage man and drive I Stink... (pause)... And then I will hug a pillow when I sleep like Daddy.  And I will wear a shirt."  (Dash gets really annoyed when his hairy, hairy dad doesn't wear a shirt to bed -- or any other time, actually.) 

He lounged thoughtfully, looking out our tall windows onto the trees swaying in the dusk and tracing the emerging stars with his little fingers.  "Sing to me, Mama," he asked.  (He NEVER asks for me to sing to him.) 

I started "Twinkle, Twinkle," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Hush-a-Bye," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Go to Sleep," and he said "Not that one."  I asked, "What do you want me to sing, then?"

"Not baby lully songs, Mama," he replied.  "Man songs."

I was cracking up inside.  What's a man song?  Rockstar?  California Girls?  Honky Tonk Badonkadonk?

Finally, I pulled myself together enough to ask, "What's a man song, Dash?"

"About boats.  Sing about boats," he sighed, frustrated. 

After "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," "Row Row Row Your Boat," and "Dip Dip and Swing," he was drifting off to sleep, hugging a pillow, just like his daddy does.  It's bittersweet to see my last baby parting with his baby-ness.  Then again, I think that this is why we parents do this: to see them grow into people who are hopefully even better people than we are, who set off into the world and make it a better place just like we made it a better place by having them.  The circle of life -- it's a beautiful thing.

We've seen little evidence of moving-related stress in our easygoing Petunia.  She has always wanted nothing more than having her dad around has much as possible, and she understands that this move makes that a reality.  She can't wait to walk to meet him for dinner sometime, and she hopes that, every once in a while, she can do her homework in his office.  She's dying to meet her West Coast cousins and is generally excited about exploring California.  Her to-do list includes things like camping in Yosemite, checking out Tahoe and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Dash, on the other hand, does not want to be from California.  He wants to be from New Jersey for the rest of his life.  "Mervont" (what he calls Vermont) is okay only because we could, and did, always go home to New Jersey.  In part because of the giant moving truck that took away all of our stuff, Dash is finally understanding that we don't live in America's armpit New Jersey anymore, and he's not taking it well.  Here are some examples of our very frequent conversations:

Dash, at least twenty times each day: "Why did we sold our house?"

Mama: "We sold our house because we're moving to California."

Dash: "When we're done with California, and when we're done with Mervont, then we move back to New Jersey."

*****
Variation 1:

Dash: "Why did the moving truck take all of our stuff out of our New Jersey house?"

Mama: "The moving truck is taking our stuff to our new house in California."

Dash: "Okay, but after they get there, and after they put the stuff in our new house, can they put it back on the truck and take it back to New Jersey?  Back to our house?"

Mama: "We're going to live in California, Dash, for a few years."

Dash, with increasing anxiety: "No, Mama, we live in New Jersey.  I want to be Wally and Beaver's neighbor.  Can we live at their house next time?"

*****
Variation 2:

Dash: "Where did my swingset go?"

Mama: "A nice family with four children bought our swingset because the people who bought our house in New Jersey didn't want it."

Dash: "Is my swingset going to be in California?"

Mama: "No, but there's a park at the end of our street."

Dash: "When we move back to New Jersey, can I have my swingset back?"

*****

I have to be blunt: this move wasn't hard for me at all.  From the looks of it, our idyllic little town, straight out of Norman Rockwell painting, was the perfect place to raise children.  And I loved many of the people and places there. What wrecked that dream was my husband's long commute and frequent travel, coupled with constant sickness (Dash's especially).  It makes sense to choose to live in a better climate where the Guv can walk to work.  We'll all be together, and well, in one place. 

But it does break my heart that Dash doesn't understand that.  He invokes our beloved neighbors, the Cleavers, almost every day.  Today, he even said, "Can Wally and Beaver move too?" and when I told him that no, the Cleavers were remaining in New Jersey, he cried his little heart out. 

I'll miss them too, Dash, but I won't miss not being able to breathe from spring through fall, or my constant worrying about air quality for your sister, or the repeat visits to hospitals in Philly to address your many issues.  I won't miss feeling like your dad's never home, so much so that I had to outsource my sanity to an au pair.  It's time to move on, hard as it is.  You're only three, but I bet you'll remember this move -- hopefully for the good that's coming more than the heartbreak you feel now.  We can always visit your beloved New Jersey -- but no, we're not moving back.

At the pool this afternoon, Dash saw a lifeguard wearing blue latex gloves to pick up trash. 

He exclaimed, "MAMA, WHO NEEDS BUTT MEDI?" 

I tried to play it off, but the naive 16 year-old lifeguard sensed that he was being addressed, and he approached.  "What did he say?" the lifeguard asked.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," was my response.

Apparently, Dash is now too old to be spoken for by his mother.  He pointed at the lifeguard's hands and rephrased, "Why do you have to give somebody butt medi at the pool?"

Again, the lifeguard asked, "What did he say?"

So I explained, "When Dash gets a fever, we give him suppositories to control the fever. He associates those gloves with the administration of the suppository."

Oh, my, but the lifeguard didn't get it.  "What's a suppository?" the sweet, naive, soon to be red-faced boy asked.

"BUTT MEDI!" Dash replied. 

"Ohhhhhh," the guard muttered as he turned red and resumed his trash duty.  I was going to make some joke about being raised in West-by-God-Virginia and/or the movie Deliverance, but all I could manage through my giggles was the banjo riff... dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah...

*****
Our fun with Dash didn't end there.  In the locker room changing after the pool, a very elderly women blew her nose while in a stall.  At the top of his lungs, Dash yelled, "MAMA! COOL!  SOME LADY FARTED!"

That time, there was no confusion about what he said.  Seriously, we're going to be lucky if we make it through this summer in Vermont without being kicked out of this family-friendly club!